


I done sold my soul, sold it to the devil (and he won’t let me alone)

by HiroMyStory



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: And also has a horn kink, But only if you squint, Case Fic, Chloe is Horny, Established Relationship, F/M, Haunted Houses, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, and some puns, eye porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27320287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiroMyStory/pseuds/HiroMyStory
Summary: Lucifer and Chloe investigate the murder of a haunted-house costumer. One thing leads to another.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 43
Kudos: 228
Collections: TDN's Incredible Exchange 2020





	I done sold my soul, sold it to the devil (and he won’t let me alone)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [matchstick_dolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_dolly/gifts).



> Title is from @matchstickdolly’s great song prompt, [Casey Bill Weldon's _Sold My Soul to the Devil_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9DQXZ-_toBM). The other two prompts are exorcism and haunted house.
> 
> Much thanks to [ariaadagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/pseuds/ariaadagio) for the beta read!

Lucifer lifts the yellow tape slung across the open apartment door and follows the waft of the Detective’s shampoo as he ducks under behind her.

Inside, Ms. Lopez crouches near a body sprawled on the couch with a shiny, looping piece of metal sticking out of its neck. It has that human-dead-three-days smell. It’s a smell he knows well, but he wouldn’t step on his favorite forensic scientist’s toes before she gives them the rundown.

“Aww. If it isn’t my favorite crime-solving couple,” Ms. Lopez greets. “This is Chris Lee, 28. Hell of way to have your life cut short.” Her expectant gaze darts between them before her face falls. “Cut short. ‘Cause the scissors?”

Lucifer leans in for a closer look at the gleaming implement skewering Mr. Lee. “Tailor’s shears?”

“Yup. There’s a pretty sweet sewing setup in the bedroom, too.”

The Detective flips open her notepad. “What else can you tell us?”

“Neighbor called it in because the stereo had been on loop for three days. Playing the soundtrack from Tim Burton’s _Corpse Bride_. Weird choice for August, you know? Anyway three days is consistent with TOD based on level of decomposition. Cause of death is obviously”—Ms. Lopez pantomimes at her own neck—“the stabby-stabby.”

“Maybe someone killed him in _shear_ frustration over his musical taste,” Lucifer cracks.

Ms. Lopez’s smile stretches and her eyes light with glee. “Yeah, maybe they got tired of _shearing_ the same song over and over—”

“He simply wouldn’t _cut_ it out.”

“—and shear me out, someone wanted to make shear he was put out of shearvice permanently.”

Lucifer grins, pleased. A happy Ms. Lopez has been a rare sight the last few weeks. “The motive seems almost _tailor_ -made.”

“Or _sew_ it _seams_.”

The Detective clears her throat. “Any witnesses?”

Ms. Lopez’s smile slips, and she shakes her head mournfully. “Poor dude lived alone. We haven’t even been able to identify any relatives.”

“Thanks, Ella,” the Detective says before turning to survey the apartment.

Before he can follow, Ms. Lopez catches his arm. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten: You owe me the deets on your big date Saturday night. After all, shearing is caring.”

He snorts and opens his mouth—

“Not at a crime scene,” the Detective’s voice cuts from across the room.

“Right. I’ll just get back to photographing the scene.” Ms. Lopes squats by the body again, lifting her camera.

Ducking down, Lucifer promises, _sotto voce,_ “Later.”

“You better,” she whispers back.

Lucifer straightens and stuffs his hands in his pockets, scanning the dreary apartment for the Detective. He catches sight of golden hair through the doorway into the bedroom and is drawn after. Only to stop short.

“Well, this is appalling.” A twin bed is shoved against the wall to the left, a small chest of drawers at its foot. Opposite, a large sewing table overflowing with bobbins, measuring tapes, and other bric-a-brac, takes up more space than the bed. Beyond that, a garment rack sprouts a startling rainbow of colors and assorted fabrics. “A _twin_ bed? How can he spread-eagle on that thing?”

“Guess he needed the space for all this.” The Detective eases open the drawer under the sewing machine and probes the contents with gloved fingers. “No scissors, so good chance our murder weapon came from here.” The drawer thumps shut.

When she moves on to the garment rack, he takes her place at the sewing table, picking up, examining, and putting down several spools of playful trim. He grins, thinking of a few fun uses for the ostrich feather trim on a satin ribbon.

“Huh. Looks like our vic made costumes.” The detective is pushing garments along the rack, hangers screeching across the metal bar.

Lucifer drifts to her side and rests his hand at the small of her back. Her head swivels, as if to confirm they’re still alone, before she leans into his side. She keeps thumbing through costumes: a clown suit, a priest’s cassock, faux-gothic velour, blood-spattered scrubs, a flight attendant’s uniform, prison stripes, some kind of fur suit . . . and a particularly slutty nurse’s costume.

“Ooh, I do love me some role play.”

The Detective’s hand falls from the fabric as she turns to face him. Biting her lip, she leans in. “So you’ve mentioned.” Her voice is surprisingly throaty and slinks down Lucifer’s spine.

“Have something in mind, do you?” Curiosity is a flame igniting in his chest.

She shrugs. But the way her eyes flicker from his own to his lips and lower before she turns away tells a story. A novella, perhaps.

He’s left staring at the array of fabric on the rack. The Detective’s “huh” snaps him back to himself.

She’s paging through a stack of papers. Lucifer leans over her shoulder, seeing designs for costumes flip by. She taps the header at the top of each page: ‘Property of Ghoulish Concepts LLC’and an address in West Adams.

“Maybe an employer or a client?” the Detective suggests. “Could be a good next step, since we know practically nothing about Mr. Lee.”

“Lead the way.” He gives the drab apartment another cursory glance and a sniff. “Anywhere is better than here.”

* * *

Chloe puts her vehicle in park in front of a low-rise office building and throws her LAPD placard onto her dashboard. According to Google, Ghoulish Concepts is the parent company for the largest chain of haunted houses in Southern California. The sun glints off the glass and white walls as they stroll up the walk lined with yucca and ornamental grasses.

Lucifer adjusts his sunglasses. “I was expecting something a little more . . . atmospheric from a business with ‘ghoulish’ in its name.”

She bumps her hand against his. “Hey, maybe it’ll be more interesting on the inside.”

His hum is noncommittal as he holds the door for her.

The lobby is empty but for a couple of large potted ferns and a silver-framed building directory on the far wall. She strides across the polished stone floor to the listing and runs her finger down the names. Lucifer hovers just behind her shoulder. He’s always a step too close, but he’s especially too close when he wants something.

“So what is it, Detective? The role play you’ve thought about. Something with a sexy maid’s outfit? I have his and hers. Or do you want to play doctor?” His lips brush her ear on that last. “Ooh, maybe a pirate captain and her cabin boy?”

She taps the directory. “Fourth floor.”

“I’m certain it isn’t clowns given how you reacted on Bobby Lowe’s soundstage.” He follows her to the elevator. “I’ve got a great Mr. and Mrs. Claus.”

Chloe stops short, and he crashes into her back. When she glances over her shoulder, he’s fussing with his cuffs and pretending she didn’t throw him off his game. She makes room for him in the elevator and jabs the button for the fourth floor. The cabin rises, and when she glances at him, he’s grinning back.

She chews her lip. “I was thinking . . . maybe you’re the Devil—”

“Hardly thinking outside the box,” he scoffs.

“Hear me out. You’re the Devil, and I’ve . . . been bad. Or”—she bites her lip again, hesitating, shy out of nowhere—“maybe I’ve sold my soul.” Her voice rises on the end.

His brows pinch—he’s not in the game the way she wants. “That would assume I’m interested in anyone’s soul.”

Ugh. Of course, he’s taking the fantasy too literally. She shrugs, playing it off. “Or, you know, a sexy nurse?”

He studies her with narrowed eyes. “A sexy nurse.”

She’s saved by the elevator’s ding and the sweep of its doors.

The small waiting area _is_ more interesting, if one considers Halloween throwing up in a box interesting. Spiderwebs and fake spiders cover the window, black lace drapes the desk, ghosts float from the ceiling, and props cover shelves lining the walls. An animatronic skeleton swings toward them, cackling when they step out of the elevator, earning Chloe’s baleful glare.

The receptionist—a young woman with a severe copper-colored bob—glances up and immediately homes in on Lucifer.

She leans toward him. “Can I help you?”

Great. One of those. “Detective Decker, LAPD,” Chloe says, interjecting before Lucifer can speak.

The woman blinks, returning to herself. “Oh! Welcome to Ghoulish Concepts! Are you interested in a custom holiday experience? We’ve arranged parties for the 27th Precinct, the Marshals Service, and the Orange County Sheriff's Office.”

Lucifer snorts.

The receptionist, distracted again, offers her hand to Lucifer. “Ellie Burstyn. I’d love to design something for you.” She leans in on _design_ and _you_.

Chloe clears her throat.

“I can grab sample books from the back.” Ellie gestures to the door behind her.

“We’re here about an employee, Chris Lee. Do you know him?”

“Chris? Yeah. Mr. Schreck adores his costumes. But Chris is a contractor, not an employee.”

“Mr. Schreck?” Chloe prompts.

“Yeah, Maxwell Schreck. He owns the company.”

“Did you know Chris well?”

Ellie shakes her head. “He worked from home, not in our workshop. Mr. Schreck usually dealt with him directly.”

Chloe hides her wince. “Is Mr. Schreck in?”

“Uh, I think so? He was working on a layout earlier. Give me a minute.” Ellie shoves back from her desk until her chair hits the wall behind her. “Oops.” She giggles. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” The door into the offices swings shut behind her.

Chloe’s ready to roll her eyes, but when she turns, Lucifer isn’t at her side. Instead, he’s plucking tchotchkes from a display shelf on the far wall, examining them, and putting them back. She joins him. He holds up a plastic prop designed to look like a chained-shut book with a pentagon and a raised goat head on the cover.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters.

“No Satanic bibles in Hell?” She shoots him a lopsided smile.

“Why the Devil?” he asks. “Why the Devil and a sinner?”

She glances at the clutter on the self. “It was a stupid idea. Forget I said anything.”

“Please.” The entreating note in his voice is a thread that pulls her eyes back to his. “I’d like to know.”

Heat rises in her cheeks and suddenly, it’s much too personal. A joke to play off her discomfort sits on the tip of her tongue. She bites the urge back. “It’s just . . . there’s this thing you do sometimes.”

His brows draw up, and he tilts his head. A subtle nod to go on.

“Remember last week when we were tracking down Mr. Chaney after Ella tied him to the murder weapon? Or, before that, Claudia Raynes when she tried to make a run for it at the marina?”

“Detective, I’ve no idea where you’re going with this.”

“When you know someone’s guilty and they run, you have this way of kinda . . . stalking them. And, uh, this thing with your, uh”—she gestures at her eyes—“Devil eyes.”

His eyes narrow. “And that has what to do with—?” He waves his hand, gesturing between them.

Her face is a roaring four-alarm fire now, and she can’t hold his gaze. She scans the shelf, fixing on a drinking bird toy with a plague mask for a beak under its black top hat. She tips its head until it dunks into the cauldron of water at its side. When she lets go, it swings upright. She pulls in a deep breath. “It’s-just-really-freaking-hot,” she grits out as the bird starts dipping again.

He doesn’t say anything. The only sound is the little plop of water as the beak dunks.

Chloe’s courage is in scattered bits, but after several thuds of her heart she tips her head to peer at him. And barely contains her nervous giggle. He looks rather like she’s hit him in the side of the head with a two-by-four.

“Look, Lucifer—”

A door creaks, and Ellie’s voice floats between them with a singsong, “Detectives.”

Lucifer whips around as if the woman’s thrown him a life preserver. Probably printed with ’SS Impeccable Timing.’

Ellie leads them to a large conference room. “Mr. Schreck will be in momentarily. Can I get either of you something to drink? Water? Coffee?”

“No, dear, I’m all set.” Lucifer gestures with his flask before taking a sip.

Chloe shakes her head at them both and watches Ellie back out of the room, bumping the door frame as she goes.

The walls are covered with drawings and notes tacked in place: concept art; storyboards; blueprints; designs for animatronics, masks, costumes. Lucifer begins a perhaps too studied examination of them. In the middle of the conference table, there’s a model of some sort of scene. She takes a closer look.

“That’s the centerpiece for a new house we’re opening this season,” a deep voice says behind her. “Sort of the Exorcist meets Night of the Living Dead.”

Chloe startles, knocking into one of the chairs. She catches it before it falls and turns to see a thin man of Lucifer’s height, probably in his late sixties.

“Apologies. I usually save jump scares for paying customers.” He holds out his hand. “Maxwell Schreck.”

She clasps it and introduces herself.

He tips his head toward the model. “It probably sounds a little silly, but I promise it will work when we get the actors in full makeup.”

She looks the model again: a priest leans over a figure on some kind of altar while zombies stagger toward them. It’s not the Mayan, but . . . “Uh, maybe not that silly. Have you considered a high-heel in the eye of one of the demon—I mean zombies?”

“Oh, that’s a good one! Mind if I . . .” He jots a note on one of the papers tacked to the wall. “Now, what can I do for you, detectives?”

Chloe can practically feel Lucifer grinning behind her shoulder at the misidentification.

“We’re here about one of your contractors, Chris Lee. I’m sorry to tell you he was found dead at his apartment this morning.”

Mr. Schreck sags. “Oh no! Chris was a truly gifted craftsman. Such a loss to the artform.”

“Do you know if he had issues with anyone?”

He shakes his head. “Chris was, um, reclusive—didn’t like leaving his apartment at all. It’s why we had him on as a contractor. Wouldn’t come into the workshop. The only other person he dealt with here was our lead costume designer, Jayson Miller. You should talk to him. He picked up some of Chris’s costumes last week. Maybe Chris said something to him?”

* * *

Mr. Schreck leads them through a massive workshop. He points out Jayson Miller, at the back, sticking pins in a costume on a dress form.

The Detective sends the ghoulish Mr. Schreck on his way as Lucifer pads up close behind Jason. “One of Chris Lee’s?”

The yelp and jump are satisfying, and, if Lucifer doesn’t miss his guess, a bit guilty.

“Y-yes. Just doing final alterations. Can I help you?”

The Detective slides to Lucifer’s side and shows her badge. “We’ve got a few questions about Mr. Lee.”

Jayson’s hand jerks on the costume’s satin cape, tottering the dress form on its stand.

“I—why?”

“When did you pick up these costumes?” the Detective presses.

“Oh—I—last Wednesday?”

Lucifer inches into his space. “Is that a question?”

Jayson eyes Lucifer nervously. “N-No. It was Wednesday.”

“Huh,” the Detective says, glancing at her notepad. “Your boss said it was on Friday.”

Oh, _clever_ Detective. The date of the murder, even if Schreck hadn’t said it.

“Right. Right, it was Friday. Sorry, busy season—all the days blur together. Nothing memorable about the visit, so I guess I forgot.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes. “You, Jay-sy, are a dreadfully bad murderer. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Murderer! What? No!”

When the Detective gestures for him to go ahead, he leans in, catching their probable-murderer’s gaze. “Come on Jay-sy. What did you desire from Mr. Lee? _Shearly_ it was something important. Tell me: What did you truly desire?”

Jayson fights the question for a bare moment before he snaps in a rush of words. “I wanted that hack to stop messing up my designs! He’s supposed to make _my_ costumes, not try to ‘improve’ them. I told him he was being let go, but then that shut-in starts going on about seeing Mr. Schreck, and I didn’t want to get in trouble. This is my _dream job_.”

Lucifer is still holding his gaze when the Detective asks, low and serious, “What did you do, Jayson?”

“I stabbed him!”

Jayson clasps his hands over his mouth as if he wishes he could cram the words back in. Then he shoves the dress form at them and makes a run for the exit.

Lucifer follows, shoving open the metal door into the fire stairs. When he glances back, the Detective is still untangling herself from the voluminous cape.

“Lucifer, go! Don’t let him get away.”

He hears pounding steps above. _He chose up_. Lucifer tilts his head forward, grin stretching his lips. This was going to be _fun_.

The roof is two floors up, and Lucifer finds Jayson on the opposite side, yanking on the door to another set of fire stairs. The locked door.

“Oh, Jay-sy. Didn’t really think that through, did you?” His eyes light and his lips pullback as he prowls across the roof.

Jayson twists to look at him. His already-panicked eyes roll up in his head for a moment as his back hits the door. “What . . . what . . .” He slumps to the ground.

Lucifer crouches over him, hands dangling between his knees. “Hmm. Something you haven’t seen in one of your haunted houses, I take it?”

Jayson huffs a relieved laugh. “It’s an effect! It isn’t real.”

So he lets Jayson see a flash of more than eyes, and the git screams like he should _._

“Lucifer,” the Detective croaks and then clears her throat. “Lucifer, that’s enough.”

He glances over his shoulder, banking the fire. She’s watching from a few feet away, gun drawn but pointed down.

Her bizarre confession echoes in his head. He pushes to his feet and faces her.

“Um,” he says.

“Uh,” she says.

“Huh,” he says.

Her face flames a shade that could rival his Devil face.

She holsters her gun and pulls out her handcuffs.“Jayson Miller, you have the right to remain silent . . .”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This one got a little away from me, so you'll have to tune in for chapter 2 for the actual smut!
> 
> Let me know what you think, or come find me on Tumblr at [hiromystory](https://hiromystory.tumblr.com/)!


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